


Open Book

by stardropdream (orphan_account)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2013-01-19
Packaged: 2017-11-26 01:29:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/645027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five things he'll never tell any other living soul.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Open Book

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ June 24, 2009.

**I.  
He loves those silly hallmark cards **  
  
Hey, the company had to be created somewhere. And his people were big fans of the whole greeting card thing. Have someone else find the words that you yourself can’t say! It’s perfect.   
  
America often scoffed at the cards in the presence of others—the cards for Mother’s Day and Father’s Day and for grandparent’s birthdays always got incredibly sappy, after all—but secretly he loved those stupid cards and their stupid, clichéd phrases.   
  
For his birthday, the other nations would give him cards and he’d laugh at them all. In secret, though, he would pour over the cards, reading every inch and admiring every ink blot of color saturating the festive pieces of paper.   
  
In the supermarkets or convenience stores, he’d spend hours contemplating the greeting card section, with the eye of a trained expert in sappy love notes. He’d regard each one, searching for one with the perfect front and the promise of a perfect middle (and the company’s name on the back, of course.) When he found one, he’d read it and ponder over the phrasing and meanings before letting loose a dopey, loopy grin.   
  
He loved those silly cards, especially the ones with the loopy cursive writing. Partially because they were cheesy and clichéd and easy to make fun of, but mostly because he liked to think that someone out there was receiving that card at that very moment and feeling needed.   
  
And it was always the ones that had sunsets or old black and white pictures that got him. Like the one he was holding now. He read the front, sighed softly with a faraway smile on his face, and flipped it open.   
  
“Oh,” he said quietly, as he read the card, flipping open the depiction of cranes flying off into the sunset and reading the scripted continuation on the inside of the card. He said again, quietly, “Oh…”   
  
He waved the card around, fanning his face idly, worrying his lower lip in thought. Then he set the card back down and walked away, hands in his pockets and that same, stupid smile on his face.   
  
  
  
  
**II.  
He wouldn’t trade his Bible Belt for anything. **  
  
Not to say he didn’t get annoyed at his belt. But really, it wasn’t so bad. Sometimes, and in the past, it presented more than enough problems. But hell, all parts of his country have presented problems at one point or another. Yeah, sure, it could be a pain in the ass sometimes.   
  
Sometimes it was too tight, or too loose. Sometimes it squeezed him in such a painful way he was convinced he should just rip it off and be done with it. But the little buckle that was so shiny and looked almost like the Good Book if you tilted it correctly was just so awesome, he couldn’t bear to think of wearing any other belt.  
  
That belt was his, damn it. And you take care of what’s yours, no matter what.   
  
  
  
  
**III.  
America doesn’t hate tea as much as he says he does. **  
  
He’s taken to carrying instant coffee packs whenever he goes over to England or China’s house (or, if he forgets, pops over to a coffee stand in the airport before heading over.) He won’t deny the health benefits of tea, or how it works just as well as keeping him caffeinated and alert. And really, if prepared the correct way (and England and China are both pretty damn good at preparing tea. It’s about the only thing England can’t destroy in the kitchen) the tea can be very delicious. But that isn’t what keeps America from drinking it.   
  
It was just the memories.   
  
If asked, he’d deny it on the spot. “Tea just tastes like crap,” he’d protest with a sharp laugh and a wave of his hand, “Give me coffee over tea any day.”   
  
But really, the smell of tea being made only made him think of centuries long past, made him think of things in the past. And while America will never, ever regret or feel ashamed for what he did in his past, because what he did was right for him and it turned out okay in the end, sometimes revisiting those things did nothing but leave him feeling… something.   
  
The coffee was bitter most days, but without fail, whenever he drank a cup of tea it only served to leave the bitterest of tastes in his mouth.   
  
  
  
  
**IV.  
Some days he really misses the freedom of the skies, the way it used to be.**  
  
He wanted to say that his people were safer, that he was safer. Now.   
  
There was a time when he had no fear, when the sky was his and the sky belonged to him, and he could never imagine anything but the feeling of wind in his hair, the feeling of unbridled joy coursing through his veins as he reached out his hand and touched the sky. It was his.  
  
There were times, now, when his heart leapt into his throat and he has to grip the armrest. It wasn’t the same. Airplanes had changed since their birth, and with it, so has his experience with them, coinciding with his people.   
  
He hated those moments, when there was turbulence and the plane would suddenly jerk downwards as if crashing. Or when the engines first ignited and there was that rumbling that almost sounds like a bomb going off. Or when the alarm on the metal detector set off and the officers drag away another person to inspect with their wands. He hated those moments, because what was once so natural and normal suddenly made his heart beat a hundred times faster and made him feel a drop of fear, when there was once only fearlessness.   
  
The sky was once free, once a place where he felt like he was at home. There was nothing to scare him, nothing to make him doubt or second guess or glance over his shoulder cautiously. He only surged forward, laid his hand on the thrust and took off. That was how it was.   
  
He hated this day and age when everyone lived in fear, when they cracked down on security that, in the end, wouldn’t stop someone motivated. He hated taking off his shoes in the airports. He hated having to give up his toenail clippers because they could be used as a deadly weapon after he forgot to leave it out of his carry-on. He hated having to empty his water bottle if the cap’s seal was broken. He hated it all.   
  
But if it means protecting his people, if only to put them at ease for a moment of turbulence, then he’d do what he must. Even give the sky away.   
  
  
  
  
**V.**  
Being needed is all well and good, but being wanted is another thing entirely… at least to him.  
  
He liked to be wanted. In his younger days, when different empirical powers fought for him (and England won) while he was scared of being brought under someone else’s control, when deep inside his heart a part of him wanted to be alone and free again, there was also a part of him that loved that people wanted him, wanted him around and wanted to own him.   
  
He wasn’t blind to how people saw him. He was a nuisance, too big and cocky for his own good. He interfered in matters that were best left alone. People insulted him, hated him, dismissed him, used him. And it wasn’t as if he didn’t insult, hate, dismiss, and use people right back. It was politics. And he hated politics.   
  
He understood that he often poked his nose into other people’s business. The other nations protested and resisted whenever he did. But then when he actually kept his nose out of things, they protested and insisted instead. It was a never-ending turmoil.   
  
_We need you, we need you, we need you._  
  
Being called on to be the (self-named) World Police wasn’t horrible. Of course, he liked sweeping in and being the hero. Especially if it made other people like him a bit more (and the moments when he realized that he was hated were always the worse. North Korea doesn’t count. Neither does the Middle East. He’s far too used to ‘Death to America’ chants).   
  
He liked it the most when he was wanted, too.   
  
He remembered those days, during the potato famine when Ireland crawled to his shores, ribs sticking out and with vacant eyes. He remembered the look of gratitude when he opened his cities to Ireland. (Even if he was a Catholic. He could deal.) He remembered when his ports were open to all of Europe, when the Baltic States stayed with him. He remembered when South Italy set about forming his mafia on his shores (and while that wasn’t the… most ideal of things, at least it got him booze during the 20s).   
  
He remembered hearing the other countries talk about him—he was the land of opportunity, the American dream, the land where the roads were paved with gold. He remembered their looks, their thoughts of longing, wanting to be part of him and see what it was that he could give them.   
  
He remembered feeling like he was wanted, and he held onto that feeling (and perhaps got a little overconfident with it at times…) and somehow that made things better, made things easier to cope with when the reality of his present day becomes clear—  
  
He isolated the entire world, save for a few allies who needed him for whatever reason. But there were moments, when other countries landed in his country and they looked around and he could see those small glimmers of _want_ there, that America knew that maybe he can fix the messes he’s created.   
  
It was a nice feeling to hold on to, at least.


End file.
